The spring of 1864 was a season of frantic, parallel wars. While the nation's attention was fixed on the grim struggle at Dybbøl, Christian waged his own campaigns in the factories and boardrooms of Copenhagen. The Engine of State, once started, roared with astonishing power. The rifle factories churned out thousands of converted weapons. The new explosive shells for the army's old cannons were being produced by the crate-load. At the navy yard, the foundations for the great iron-working forge were laid, and Admiral Løvenskiold's design board, guided by Christian's insights, had selected a revolutionary British design for their first ironclad.
From Eskildsgård, Soren sent glowing reports. The first planting of the four-field system was a success, the clover and turnips growing with a vigor the tenants had never seen. The estate's profits were already projected to double, providing Christian with a personal river of gold to fund initiatives the committee would not.
But success bred resentment. Count Ahlefeldt and the vanquished old guard, unable to attack Christian's results, began to attack his character. Whispers slithered through the salons and clubs of the capital. The young Count Eskildsen was too ambitious, they said. His committee was a dictatorship that trampled on the authority of the King's ministries. He and his industrialist friends were war profiteers. The gossip even touched upon his meetings with Amalie Løvenskiold, hinting at an improper relationship to secure the Admiral's loyalty. It was a classic political smear campaign, designed to poison his reputation with the King and the public.
Christian ignored it. He knew that rumors were ghosts; they could be dispelled by the hard light of reality. And reality was about to arrive with the force of a cannonball.
On the morning of April 18th, the telegraph at the Ministry of War began to clatter with a frantic, desperate urgency. The final Prussian grand assault on Dybbøl had begun.
For six hours, a stream of fragmented messages painted a picture of apocalyptic violence. The Prussian artillery barrage was the most intense of the war, shattering what was left of the Danish redoubts. Then came the infantry assault—tens of thousands of men surging forward.
But this time, they were met not with sporadic volleys, but with a continuous, disciplined sheet of fire from thousands of breech-loading rifles. The first wave of the assault was annihilated. The second wave met the same fate. For hours, the outnumbered Danes held their ground, their new weapons inflicting a horrific toll on the enemy.
The final telegram came just after midday. It was short and bleak.
FROM: ARMY HQMSG: DYBBØL POSITION OVERRUN. PRUSSIAN FORCES HAVE TAKEN THE REDOUBTS. ARMY IS IN A FIGHTING RETREAT. I REPEAT, DYBBØL HAS FALLEN.
A wave of despair washed over the capital. The nation's last great fortress had been lost. Ahlefeldt and his faction immediately seized on the news, demanding an emergency session of the Landsting to condemn the Armaments Committee. "His new weapons have failed!" Ahlefeldt declared to anyone who would listen. "His arrogance has led to this defeat!"
That afternoon, Christian was summoned to Amalienborg Palace. When he arrived, he found Count Ahlefeldt already there, along with General de Meza and the King.
"Your committee has had its chance, Count Eskildsen," Ahlefeldt began, his voice ringing with vindictive triumph. "You promised us victory. You have delivered only defeat. Dybbøl is lost. The army is broken."
Before Christian could reply, another messenger arrived, bearing the final casualty reports from the battle. General de Meza took the report, read it, and went pale. He handed it silently to the King.
The King read the page, his expression shifting from despair to disbelief. He looked up, his eyes locking on Christian. "Explain these numbers."
Christian stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he said calmly, "we did not win the battle. I never promised we would. I promised we would give your soldiers the means to fight. And they did."
He addressed the whole room. "The Prussians have captured a field of rubble and mud. To do so, they lost over five thousand men, with their most elite guard regiments suffering the highest casualties. The Danish army, while forced to retreat, remains an intact fighting force, having suffered less than one-third of those losses. We have bled Prussia's finest regiments white. We have taught them, and all of Europe, that to invade Denmark is to march into a meat grinder. We lost a battle, Your Majesty, but we have inflicted a wound so deep that it may just give us the leverage we need to negotiate an honorable peace."
The room was silent. Ahlefeldt's arguments about honor and tradition crumbled into dust in the face of the brutal, undeniable numbers. He had offered rhetoric; Christian had delivered results, written in the enemy's blood.
The King looked from the casualty report to Christian, and in that moment, the final political battle was won. He saw past the boy's age and his radical methods to the cold, hard competence beneath.
"Count Ahlefeldt, you are silent," the King said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Your counsel has brought us nothing but honorable defeat. Count Eskildsen's methods have saved our army from annihilation." He turned to Christian, his trust now absolute. "You have done what I asked. You have given our men the tools to fight. Now, you will help me find a peace this kingdom can endure. You will be part of the delegation."
Christian left the palace, the silent, defeated glare of his political rival burning at his back. He had utterly crushed the opposition. He now possessed the complete, unwavering trust of the monarch.
But his victory felt hollow. He had just been handed his most difficult task yet. He had proven he could build a war machine. Now he had to sit across the table from a man he knew from history as a political genius and a titan of diplomacy: Prussia's Minister President, Otto von Bismarck. The war on the battlefield was ending. The war at the negotiating table was about to begin.